


Lucifer

by lucrethia



Series: The path to hell is paved with good intentions. [1]
Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Introspection, Religious Fanaticism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:07:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28632981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucrethia/pseuds/lucrethia
Summary: Lancelot has been conditioned to become a soldier of faith, but the fate of a child changes his destiny. Or how the weeping monk questions the teachings of his "father".
Relationships: Squirrel | Percival & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Series: The path to hell is paved with good intentions. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2098701
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I finally decided to continue this story, in English. So here is the translation of the first chapter of "Lucifer". The next chapters are already written and should therefore be translated quite quickly. Have a good read!
> 
> the tags will be updated as and when required.

The light mist that covered the red tent camp and the forest all around lit up the scene in a dull, silvery light as the grey monk stood by Father Carden, watching his brother in red drag a prisoner towards them. It took him a few moments to recognise the talkative boy he had met some time ago during the cleansing of a Fay village. The paladins found him freeing the green knight, he called him a _Fay pathfinder._ Father Carden begins to question him, but the boy has not lost his nerve, he defies him and spits in his face as he did with him in the woods after the massacre of his people, with a courage close to unconsciousness, the naivety of a child who believes that nothing bad can happen to him, that his will alone is enough to overcome all dangers; he knows this feeling, he believed it too, before all his illusions were forcibly taken away from him. The grey monk would have smiled at his daring if it had not been for the gravity of the situation in which the young boy finds himself. He can do nothing, the child is condemned and only death will save his soul. He can do nothing to help him, but this certainty does not lessen the cold that overwhelms him in the face of his helplessness, and Gawain's words come back to him, _"You see all this with those eyes that weep, and it makes you guilty."_ The truth of his words hurts him.

"Take him to Brother Salt and tell him to start with his filthy tongue."

The young monk's blood is freezing in his veins. They cannot condemn a child to torture, Father Carden only seeks redemption for the souls of the Fay, he is not cruel without reason, he is simply angry at the boy's attitude. 

"He's just a boy, he's not a threat to us."

The boy lifts his eyes and looks at him with burning hatred, but he doesn't look back at him, it doesn't matter what he thinks of him. Father Carden turns around slowly and stares at him before ordering the red paladin to take the prisoner away, his eyes not leaving those of his henchman's weeping eyes. He steps forward and glances at His Holiness' envoy.The young man knows that he should not have intervened, he will have to atone for his insubordination, the father does not tolerate his decisions being challenged, even less in the presence of a superior. The old man stops in front of him and slaps him violently with the back of his hand, making his jaw crack.

"Why do you shame me?"

He expects no answer, no justification, just submission and obedience, blind faith in his actions, so the monk doesn't answer.Father Carden turns away and the young warrior notices the satisfied and scornful grin from the abbot Wicklow. _"You don't know the difference between kindness and hatred." - Is this the case?_ Is Father Carden's attitude towards him an act of kindness, with the only honourable aim of saving his soul from damnation? Or is it simply an expression of his hatred for his demonic nature? Does he condemn this child to despicable suffering for the salvation of his soul or simply _for revenge?_ Is the Green Knight right? Is he so conditioned that he can no longer tell the difference? The young man remains lost in his reflections, and his doubts are a torture, because if he no longer has faith in this cause that he has defended for as long as his memory goes back, then his existence no longer has any meaning.


	2. linked fates

Every blow that tears his skin is a blessing, pain is his penance, his atonement for having been born in sin, a child of the devil. He didn't choose him, he came into the world this way.Father Carden showed him the way of deliverance and repentance and explained to him that the greater the evil, the more difficult it is to remain on the right path. So he has to fight against his nature and it is a struggle of every moment. Pain allows him to keep this in mind, it is a constant and indelible reminder engraved in his flesh.A new whiplash pins his back and he has to clench his teeth so that he doesn't wince, his father doesn't like it, he has to welcome the pain with gratitude because that's the only way he will be able to obtain absolution. He remembers the first time Father Carden beat him, he was screaming and fighting, and the old man only stopped when the boy he was at the time had resigned himself; in fact he had simply lost consciousness, but the father told him that it was because his impure soul wanted more than anything else to be purified, even though he was not yet aware of it, that it had forced his body to submit to faith. The first years had been difficult, the evil was deeply rooted in him and he had resisted, he did not understand why he should be punished. He was afraid, he had submitted to it out of simple survival instinct, he had pretended to repent; but he finally understood, God's light is a gift that he had to deserve, he had to prove that he was worthy of it.

Father Carden finally stops and walks towards the young man kneeling in front of him, putting one hand on his shoulder.

"Don't disappoint me anymore."

The weeping monk keeps his head down and responds gratefully.

"Thank you, Father."

Once alone, the young man remains on his knees before the altar, contemplating the holy cross in front of him; He closes his eyes and tries to enter into communion with God as his red brothers do, to visualise the Divine light, to feel the benevolent warmth of faith in him; but all he sees behind his closed eyelids is the terrified look in the boy's eyes when they took him away; a terror similar to the one he himself felt a long time ago. All he feels today is the guilt of having let all those children die, the shame of standing there while his brothers are about to torture a kid, and the doubt that gnaws at him is like a snake that creeps into his mind. Why does the Lord's will have to be so cruel? Why let the damned come into the world if they are destined only to suffer martyrdom on earth and be condemned to hell? Does not God in his omnipotence see the absurdity of all this?

Doubt is a test of his faith, he knows it, so he prays, but as hard as he invokes the Almighty, his heart remains empty and painful. Father once told him that God dwells in every act of kindness, but he saw no kindness in the father's eyes when he condemned the boy. _What if Gawain was right? What if he was mistaken?_ What if the father was not serving the purpose he claims, but only a personal goal of power, of which he would be the instrument? A noise in his back warns him of Father Carden's presence in the tent and he cannot contain his suffering when he opens his mouth. 

"I don't feel Him." His voice is interspersed with sobs as despair overwhelms him."I invoke Him, I seek Him, but there is only darkness."

His breathing is difficult, he feels suffocated, he needs his father to help him, to show him the way once more, so that he doesn't lose himself, while his wall of certainties collapses around him like a house of cards, leaving his bruised soul naked.

"You are the sword of light in a battle against the Lord of Darkness. Did you think you could escape him? Him and his corruption?" The father walks forward while talking and stops behind the altar, contemplating the young Fay's weeping face in front of him. "The beast does not tear flesh, it tears the soul."

But the old man's words fail to comfort the torn soul of the monk and the tears flow, transparent over the reddish ones that mark his face. He cannot hold back the question, the only one whose answer matters to him now, the one that will set fire to his armour of conviction, or rekindle the flame within him. Words come out of his mouth in a wrenching murmur as he feels his heart breaking. Deep down, he already knows that answer.

"Do you love me, Father?"

The father doesn't answer, he simply looks at him as if he's studying him, and then speaks in a firm, unemotional voice.

"Of course."

And the young man cries because he knows it's not true; this statement is no longer enough to convince him. If he is unable to feel the presence of God, he can feel Satan's presence oozing from the old man's mouth with the same intensity as he feels the presence of the fay when he stalks them in the woods. _How did he not see it before?_ His whole life is a vast masquerade. _"You repeat their words, but you know they're lies, I feel it in you, brother."_ Did he know all along? _"They've twisted your mind so much you don't know the difference between kindness and hate."_ Was this truth buried deep inside him, behind a wall of denial and self-hatred? He has made his decision, he knows what he has to do, _his heart knows it._ He can't help but ask one last question, he wants to know how far the cruelty of the man he considered a father for most of his life, the only father he remembers, can go.

"Even if I'm cursed?" The father remains stoic. "Those are dangerous words."

He lowers his head, as if resigned to having to repeat the same words again, the same acting, and sits on the edge of the altar while the grey monk struggles in vain against the sobs that shake his body.

"I'm going to say it one last time. You were born a demon. An abomination in the eyes of God. But I spared you from being burnt at the stake because you could smell your own kind. I educated you. I disciplined you. I made you one of our best weapons. I turned you against your creator and I laid the first stone on the path to your salvation. But I cannot walk for you my son. I cannot save you from the flames. You must have the will to do what is necessary. Do you have the will, my son?"

He laughs at him, he doesn't care if he destroys him, if he thinks he's going to get something he'll never get. He had believed, _hoped,_ that this man had ended up considering him as a son, but all he did was manipulate the innocent child that he was; his father broke him up in order to better reshape him according to his own needs.

"Yes father."

"Then let's not talk about it any more."

**********************

The boy is tied to a chair inside a tent. He has been told that he will be taken to Brother Salt's kitchen but this place looks nothing like a kitchen; he recognises the tent where he found the Green Knight, the torture room, but the knight is no longer there and he hopes with all his naivety that he is all right. The red monk who brought him is gone, he is alone, left to his overflowing imagination, which is typical of children of his age, and the future he sees is frightening. 

He is a brave, daring boy, he faces up to and is not normally impressed by his enemies, but being tied up and alone in waiting makes him aware of the danger. He is no longer in the heat of the action, he is vulnerable and at the mercy of his executioners, the men who massacred his village, his parents, his friends. 

Squirrel wonders if the old monk was serious and if they are really going to cut out his tongue. He shudders in disgust at the thought; he, always so talkative, cannot imagine finding himself mute, but of course he also knows that there is little chance that he will be let out of here alive. As the minutes go by and fear creeps into him, tears come to his eyes but he fights them, he doesn't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry, he wants to show himself worthy of Gawain, that his parents are proud of him if they see him from where they are. But he's only a child and he can't stop the shaking that runs through him, more and more violent as the anguish twists his stomach. So it is almost with relief that he welcomes the arrival of Brother Salt. The latter chooses an instrument from his panoply and turns towards the young boy with a smile that makes him shiver.

"So we play a little bit now?"

Squirrel doesn't want to show his fear, so he hides it under his usual bravado, but his eyes betray him, although his voice is firm.

"You're the ugliest of them all, inside and out! Very well, kill me, but you will always be _you!_ And that's worse than anything I can imagine." The sewn-eyed monk seems annoyed and turns to put down his tool, grasping a dagger in its place before facing the boy again.

"Tongue first, I think." Terror overtakes the boy but true to himself he continues to defy the monk with courage.

The quiet smile that the man doesn't let go of makes Squirrel want to hit him, but he can't, so he tries to bite him with his words, to reach him somehow. To save time? To give himself courage? he doesn't know himself... But he needs that to avoid screaming and crying. He knows that all this is useless, he will do whatever he wants to him anyway and he is unable to defend himself. The sound of the tent flap makes the executioner turn and Squirrel hopes that the visitor will give him a reprieve, but when he sees the hooded monk enter he knows there is no hope. This murderer has massacred so many innocent people, why should it be any different with him? The red monk asks who is there and the great monk in grey doesn't answer, but he seems to recognise his presence all the same.Squirrel cannot avert his eyes from the large dark figure who looks at him without saying anything. He has the impression that he sees sadness in his eyes and he doesn't understand, he would like to communicate all his hatred in that look, but he remembers that he defended himself against the old red father earlier and despite what he knows about the man standing in front of him he can't help hoping that maybe...

"You come to watch, my weeping brother?"

The weeping monk's gaze does not let go of the child's, he still doesn't answer and at the moment when the boy feels all hope abandoning him, the grey monk takes a knife out of his cloak and with a fluid and quick movement, he slits his brother's throat without hesitation, letting his lifeless body fall into a pool of blood before rushing towards the child and cutting his bonds. Neither one speaks and Squirrel feels that his survival depends on his ability to keep quiet for once. He doesn't understand why this man is helping him, but he is his only chance to get out of here alive, so he keeps quiet and lets himself be brutally lifted up by the front of his canvas garment and dragged unceremoniously by the grey monk.

*****************

The weeping monk drags the boy through the camp, sneaking between the tents under cover of night, forcing him to run to keep up with his long, fast strides; he practically lifts the child off the ground trying to make him move faster, the boy's short legs preventing him from keeping up. Father Carden has left for King Uther's camp to retrieve the wolf-blooded witch, this is his only chance to get the child out of the camp. The rest will depend only on him. He is not worried about his fate, he has already accepted it. Now that his life no longer has a purpose, it has lost its meaning. He knows that the redemption he has been hoping for for so many years is only an illusion, a mirage, he will never be entitled to it and it is too late to redeem his sins. His only objective is to save this unconscious kid and then... He leaves the rest in the hands of the Lord. They are almost at the edge of the camp when they come face to face with Abbot Wicklow and his henchmen. He didn't expect to be spotted so quickly... 

"I won't do that." 

The arrogant little man stands before them confidently, with a smirk on his face.

"Remind you of someone? That Fay orphan?" How did he know? Father Carden maybe, or the marks on his face... It doesn't matter, not any more, his life of suffering is finally coming to an end. All he has to do is protect the child. As for him, they may well burn him on a cross, his fate is not important to him.

"You don't need him." The abbot comes forward while speaking, looking at him with contempt.

"Why? Can't he smell his own like an animal? Or is it just your _species_?"

Hurtful words don't reach him, humiliation is something he's used to, and besides, isn't that the truth? He has always been only a bloodhound for Father Carden, a dog trained to track and kill his own kind. Gawain knew it, he could never have told them the truth about his kind, these men were never his brothers, they only tolerated him for his usefulness. He pushes the boy behind him and orders him to hide, but Squirrel hesitates, he looks at his saviour, this man he doesn't understand, who has killed so many of his own and who sacrifices himself to save him .He knows he won't be of any help, so he runs, but he can't bring himself to abandon the monk, he owes him a debt and he wants to be a man of honour; and he's a Fay, and the Fay don't abandon theirs, whatever he may have done before today. Squirrel hides behind nearby barrels and watches the scene.

"You have a reputation, but it is the Trinity's guardian. You know their capabilities."

Yes, the young man knows them, but they are nothing compared to his own, his father has made him a deadlier weapon than any of them, worthy of Abaddon himself, the exterminating angel. He savours one last time the song of his swords slipping out of their sheaths and faces them, ready to gain time for the child. He wants to leave with honour, even if it doesn't redeem years of bewilderment.

"So be it." 

The religious man walks away, making way for his knights of faith. The battle is brief, bloody, the blades of the fallen Fae dance with death in a graceful and murderous ballet.The first assailants fall in a few seconds and the man of the church signals to the next to intervene. The boy must be far away by now, the young monk's last mission is accomplished and he feels that he can leave with peace of mind, he has found the path to redemption before the end but he is not worthy to follow it, he does not deserve forgiveness, hell awaits him and he will face divine punishment. He spreads his arms out on a cross, he will not defend himself, _what is the point of making things last longer than necessary?_ There is no more room for him in this world. In spite of his determination, his body reacts by reflex and he dodges the sword blow of the masked man facing him, but is pulled back when two guards of the trinity wrap their flails around his swords; he is forced to let them go just as he feels the joints in his shoulders crack; he is disarmed when a first blow hits him in the back. The searing pain throws him off balance and before he can turn around, a second blow hits his ribs with a sickening crack. The young man doesn't let out a scream, he has been trained to show nothing of what he feels. The blows rain down, shaking his body like a rag doll before he collapses to his knees, bones broken, muscles torn.

His executioners are ruthless, he understands that they do not intend to finish him off properly, he will not be given the mercy of a quick coup de grâce, they want to massacre him, to make him feel all the hatred they have for him, for his kind. He tries to invoke a comforting image to chase away the fear that invades him; but there is nothing, even his mother's face is blurred, he only remembers his eyes; the same bright blue as his own but with something else when they were landing on him, sweetness, joy and a love that he hasn't felt since the day the paladins took him away. He would have liked to have more memories of her but all that is so far away now. Blood spurts out of his nose and mouth on contact with the steel and he falls apart, at the end of his strength. It is now that all of this is over. One of the men abruptly pulls him up by the back of his coat and takes off his hood. Time seems to slow down as he looks death in the face with a serene mind, his heavy and painful breathing causing small clouds of white vapour with each exhalation.

It is without counting on Squirrel who springs out of his hiding place and interrupts the killing with a stone throw. The shooting is precise and hits its target. The young man watches the boy pick up the sword at his feet and brandish it, provoking the warriors with a voice full of anger that cannot hide his fear, and he cannot help but curse him. _Why is he still here?_ This stupid child is going to die after all he has done to keep him alive! He must not miss this chance, not for himself. Even so he cannot deny his courage and he admires him for it.He doesn't know why the child stayed, nor why he is defending him, the one who killed his people, but he understands that he won't go alone and this thought gives him new energy. He doesn't know why the child stayed, nor why he is defending him, the one who killed his people, but he understands that he won't go alone and this thought gives him new energy. If the boy doesn't want to abandon him, he has to fight to protect him, because there is no way another innocent person will die because of him. The grey monk takes advantage of the distraction of the men-at-arms to pick up his sword and gather his meagre forces. As he gets up, he disembowels two men with a circular blow. He turns to ward off a third man's attack before turning to perforate his back, sending him to hit one of his allies and then slice the face off the next one before dropping the last two by lacerating their legs, finishing one on the ground to break the last one's neck.

He can barely stand but still finds the strength to point his weapon at Abbot Wicklow who runs away, like the coward he is, before his exhausted body gives way. Once again the child comes to his rescue and forces him to stand up, pulls him, carries him halfway and manages against all odds to lead them to his horse. The young man draws on his last strength to mount Goliath and hoist the little Fae in front of him, ignoring the agony that explodes in his bones with every movement. He would never have imagined that he would find himself watching over a boy. He who has so much blood on his hands, he hesitates to put it on the child; he has the impression that he could defile him, contaminate him, but the protective instinct that the boy has aroused in him is the strongest and he presses him against his bruised body, making sure that he doesn't fall off the saddle as they ride away from the camp. The former monk does not know if he will have the strength to remain conscious, he shakes his young friend's little hands in his own and closes them on the reins of the horse, trying to make him understand without a word that he is entrusting him with the rest; that for a moment he is putting his fate in his innocent hands.


	3. forgive

It has been a long night, the young man is exhausted and the pain radiates throughout his body. Every jolt caused by the movements of the horse under him is a real torture but he knows that he must not stop. When Father Carden learns what he has done, he will inevitably send men after him and he is in no condition to fight. His only chance of survival lies in speed. They are already far from the camp, however, and the paladins no longer have their bloodhound, but this thought is not enough to reassure him. He looks for a moment at his young companion, peacefully asleep on the saddle in front of him, and he cannot help envying his carelessness; the child's face is relaxed, serene, his mouth slightly ajar. He has been asleep for about 3 hours, rocked by Goliath's regular footsteps. The monk knows that the day before must have been as exhausting for the child as it was for him.He would have preferred to be able to speed up the pace, to run at full speed as far as possible, but his broken bones do not allow him this luxury and after having narrowly escaped the fall he had to resign himself, he cannot risk breaking his neck by falling off the horse and leaving the boy alone, in the middle of nowhere without protection - however poor it may be. The sunrise finally succeeds in disrupting little Fay's leaden slumber as he stretches and yawns before turning his head towards his protector.

"Didn't you sleep?" The monk shakes his head in denial and then wince at the pain the movement causes. He feels as if his brain is a gruel. "You should get some rest, I'll steer the horse if you want. I've done this before you know, riding a horse I mean, not steering a horse while someone is sleeping but you can trust me I'm not going to leave you on the road. Besides I owe you a debt of gratitude now, you saved me and..." The monk rolls his eyes remembering the young boy's ability to talk without stopping and decides that he must answer if he wants to cut short his monologue.

"I'm fine, thank you." But it's a waste of time and the young boy resumes as if he hadn't been interrupted.

"We should stop and find a river for your horse to drink from. And then we could wash it a bit and heal your wounds, you know it's going to get infected if you leave it like that. My mother always made herbal poultices when I was injured from falling out of a tree or playing with others."

The monk sighs, already tired from his passenger's babbling but he doesn't say anything, the boy won't stop anyway, so what's the point? He feels weak and when he thinks about it it might not be a bad idea, washing himself would probably do him good and, to be honest, his smell bothers him; a mixture of blood, sweat, filth and, above all, _the smell of Fae._ It's been a long time since he's been so close to a person of his kind. Lost in his thoughts he doesn't immediately realize that Squirrel has stopped talking. He crosses the child's gaze as he stares at him, his head twisted over his shoulder, visibly waiting for an answer to a question he hasn't heard. The boy, aware that the monk has not listened to him, grinds a little at the lack of consideration for his words and repeats his question.

"Why do you always cry? Have you always been like this?"

The monk thinks back to his childhood, but in the vague memories he has of it he had no marks under his eyes, they appeared later, little by little. The first time he noticed these strange dark marks was after Father Carden forced him to kill his first Fae, a boy not much older than him at the time, _probably the same age as Squirrel._ He remembers his begging, his crying, but not his face. He didn't want to kill him, he had refused at first and Father Carden had beaten him, he had refused again and the father then changed his approach, explaining to him that he had to save his soul, that he had to kill him for his own good, that it was an act of kindness. Then he gave him the choice: a clean and quick death with his own hands by sword, or to burn him at the stake and he gave in, piercing the boy's heart with his sword. He had seen people burning, it was not an enviable death.He remembers the boy's hiccups of suffering and surprise, the blood running down the blade and on his hands, the wide-open eyes of the Fay just before he collapsed forward like a disjointed puppet. He had gone to vomit and then cried in Father Carden's tent before cleaning himself up, looking at himself in the tent mirror to make sure that his face did not betray his weakness, for fear of being beaten again. They were only slight greyish streaks under his lower eyelid at that time, and they have only since grown, longer and darker with each annihilated life of his hands so that they almost reach the bottom of his jaw now. For the father, they are the sign of his repentance and for a long time he believed in it... But today, he doesn't know what to believe... The Green Knight told him that this is the sign that he belongs to the people of the Ashes. Maybe it's just the proof of all the blood he shed. The annoyed grunt of the kid brings him back to the present. He doesn't know what to say so he prefers to change the subject.

"What's your name, boy?" The boy is not fooled, he knows the monk is trying to dodge his question. He answers a little curtly.

"Squirrel"

"A squirrel is an animal. What name have you been given?" The monk's insistence annoys the boy, he has no desire to answer him, while he refuses his questions.

"I don't love him."

"It is all the same your name." With a deep sigh, the boy is about to refuse again but an idea comes to him. If he agrees to answer, maybe the other one will agree to give him his name as well... At least he hopes so, because he doesn't really know how to address him.

"All right. It's Percival." The adult repeats the name as if he's tasting the flavour, enjoying the sound.

"And you, do you have a real name?" Percival expects the monk not to answer, but against all odds it only takes a few seconds before he speaks, a hint of nostalgia in his voice.

"Lancelot... A long time ago, my name was Lancelot."

"Lancelot... It's a pretty name. Why didn't you use it?"

"It's a Fay name. The father didn't want anyone else to know." Lancelot doesn't need to see the boy's face to know he frowns.

"So what did he call you? Your father, did he give you another name?"

It's a hurtful question, but he can't blame the boy. If he thinks about it, _it's himself he blames,_ for being so naive, so stupid? For having let Carden humiliate him in every possible way.

"He wasn't my father, that's a religious designation, and no, he didn't give me another name."

Percival stops talking for a few minutes, trying to understand why Lancelot has stayed with people who don't accept him for what he is, who haven't even bothered to give him a decent name, but he can't, so he can't help asking.

"Why didn't you leave? These people... they didn't respect you, they weren't really friends, were they? So why didn't you leave?" It's a good question and to be honest Lancelot doesn't know how to answer it.

"I was very young, I was alone and I was afraid. I did what I had to do to survive." The kid nods his head at that, he can understand that kind of motivation.

"What about your family? Where's your real father?"

"He's dead, they all died a long time ago." Percival can't repress the question that burns his lips, even though he knows he shouldn't ask it.

"How did they die?"

The boy's words hurt him, but Lancelot knows it wasn't intentional. He thinks back to that day, the blue sky, the birds singing, the heat of a summer afternoon. He remembers playing with his little sister and other kids when the men in red arrived. He remembers hearing screams, but in the euphoria of the game, none of the children paid attention quickly enough to the sudden commotion around them. They kept running and shouting until... It's all a blur... There is red on his face, his hands, and his mother's body at his feet; he can still see her beautiful blue eyes widened by fear as she draws her last breath with her hand held out to his face. He remembers falling down beside her, but a man prevented him from touching her by lifting him up by his tunic. The rest is blurred by tears, lots of red all around, fire, screams, his father burning on a huge wooden cross. Perceval realises too late that he has gone too far when he sees the absent gaze of the man behind him. His question is cruel and Lancelot probably doesn't want to talk about it. He found himself alone at a very young age so maybe he doesn't even remember them...

"Sorry, I shouldn't have asked, I didn't want to sadden you."

He is surprised when he feels Lancelot's arms tighten around him, but he doesn't move when the former monk presses his face against his hair. Lancelot relaxes at the nearness of little Fay, it is a strange and pleasant sensation for him who has not had physical contact with anyone for so many years, apart from Father Carden's blows. He breathes calmly, gradually getting used to the smell of grass and field flowers that emanates from him, a sweet smell, a smell that reminds him of that beautiful summer day before everything was covered by the smell of blood and death.

"It is for me to ask your forgiveness. I'm sorry, so sorry for everything I've done."

His voice is only a hoarse breath, but Percival can feel the sadness and remorse that Lancelot feels.He knows that his people will not forget all the massacres that this man has perpetrated but even if he cannot admit it yet, he knows deep down that he has already forgiven him. Because he is only a child, and he still has that naive kindness and the ability to forgive unconditionally that gets lost as he gets older. So for once he doesn't answer, he simply holds his new friend's fingers in his little hand and waits, aware of the silent sobs that shake the other Fay's body.


	4. in the good care of a Squirrel

That evening, Lancelot's condition suddenly deteriorated; or perhaps he only declined throughout the day, Perceval doesn't know, it's difficult to say with him. He shows nothing, hidden behind his large hood and walled in silence. The sun sets behind the hills when Percival feels the warrior's hands slipping away from him, seconds before he falls off his horse. The child pulls on Goliath's reins and drops from the saddle, running towards the former monk without taking the time to make their mount follow. He is barely conscious, pale as a ghost and drenched in sweat. He doesn't try to get up, he won't make it and he knows it. The agony triggered by the slightest tremor in his body confirms it to him, he is finished. He manages to articulate a few words, his teeth clenched.

"Leave me alone. Take the horse and go."

Percival blames himself for not paying enough attention to his companion. Yet he saw the blows, the blood, heard the bones cracking. He should have forced this stubborn monk to stop, forced him to heal his wounds. Instead, he found a way _to fall asleep on horseback!_ He, _whom Gawain has made a knight!_ He shakes his head vigorously.

"No, I won't leave you! Don't insist, you're in no condition to impose anything on me."

Lancelot is about to retort when he is coughed on, blood splashing on the tunic of the boy in front of him. Perceval feels the anguish wring his stomach and tears burn his eyes. He mustn't give in to despair, they don't need a cry-baby! He rushes towards the horse and brings it back to the injured man, but he knows he won't be able to pull him up on the horse's back. He thinks, trying to contain his panic, casting anxious glances around him. The forest is not far away, he has to take Lancelot to safety.

He bends over and grabs the young man under his armpits, ignoring the heart-rending cry that escapes from the other Fae's lips as he pulls with all his strength to make him move, tearing his bones to pieces. But despite the proximity of the trees, the monk's large body is far too heavy to drag him there, not to mention the silent suffering, at every jolt, that his feverish blue eyes, staring anxiously at him, shout at him. He lays Lancelot gently on the ground and starts to frenetically rummage through the saddle's cast iron, his hands feverishly searching until he finds some rope. He turns to the former monk and wraps the cloak tightly around his body, tying it around his legs and then around his chest and arms before tying the end to the saddle's girth. It will be painful, but it is his only chance to reach the forest.

Lancelot says nothing, does not protest when he understands his young friend's plan. The boy is even more stubborn than he is, nothing he could say will make him go away, so he will make it easier for him. The sooner they reach the forest, the better. Percival is not safe here. They make a choice target and can be spotted from afar, stopped in the middle of this deep valley dominated by hills. When they set off, each step of the horse is a torment, each pebble, each bump or hollow in the ground sends waves of suffering that radiate in his limbs leaving him no respite. Lancelot is silent, the child does everything he can to help him, he shows courage and loyalty that he has never witnessed, he doesn't need to hear him complain. Rarely has Lancelot felt so vulnerable as now, tied up in his own cape like a package of merchandise and dragged behind his own horse by a Fae child. He imagines how incongruous the situation might seem to anyone who saw them... The famous Weeping Monk, the ultimate weapon of the paladins, scourge of the Fae, at the mercy of a little boy.

********************

When he opens his eyes, he sits with his back against a tree, covered with his cape... _And alone._ He doesn't know how he got there, he must have lost consciousness. He straightens up slightly and notices Goliath tied a little further to his right, the saddle resting on a dead tree stump. But no trace of Percival. A deaf anguish crushes his heart as he imagines all sorts of more or less horrible hypotheses about what could have happened to the child. He can no longer hold on to it; slowly and with difficulty he climbs up on his feet, leaning on the trunk of the oak tree with his able-bodied arm. The fever must have subsided, the world around him seems less blurred... How long was he unconscious? It's night, he remembers the sun disappearing on the horizon and then nothing... but he can't see the moon, the forest is too dense, he could have been there for hours... _Maybe even days?_ How do you know? Every movement is reflected in his bones and he can't hold back a pitiful whimper when he takes his first steps on his unstable legs; but then again, it seems to him that the pain is less intense, less sharp, more tolerable. Intrigued, he realizes that he is shirtless. His wounds have been wrapped with bandages... He notices the remains of a small campfire and bends over to examine it; it hasn't been out for very long, two hours at the most. Moving away from the smell of damp ashes, he bends his head back a little, smelling the air, trying to pick out the smell of grass and wildflowers. It is present, but weak. He examines the surroundings of the small camp, trying to find a clue as to which direction to follow when he sees traces of blood on the leaves of a small bush. Increasingly worried, he decides to leave Goliath and look for Percival on foot so as not to miss any clues, retrieving his bow and a few arrows if necessary.

******************

The last two days have been difficult for Perceval. After moving Lancelot unconscious under the cover of the woods and placing him against a tree, he quickly searched for a water point. Luckily, a small trickle of water meandered nearby, too insignificant to be called a stream, but it was enough. Perceval filled the waterskins before quickly returning to the wounded man. The light declined rapidly after sunset and he had to be careful not to twist an ankle. He finally reached his makeshift camp safely and busied himself untangling Lancelot from his cloak.He soon realised that this was only the simplest part; removing his surcoat, stuck with dried blood and embedded in the wounds in some places, proved to be much more difficult than he had thought, the monk being of no help to him. With grunts and insults, he was able to cope with it all the same, discovering the extent of the damage; the spectacle before hindered his eyes and almost upset his stomach. A mixture of colours ranging from blackish purple to bright red spread out in front of him, making it impossible to distinguish a patch of healthy skin; the skin had burst in places, leaving lumps of raw flesh; he even noticed a few bone splinters in the middle of the large wound dug into the ribs on his right side.

The poor boy then felt a wave of despair over his poor medical knowledge. Lancelot needed a healer, but he didn't have one... Gathering his wits and courage, little Fae had undertaken to clean the blood from the unconscious man's chest and arms. Once he had done that, he had a better estimate of the damage. The blows had wreaked havoc, most of the wounds oozed a yellowish white liquid and the others continued to bleed profusely. How much blood can a man lose before he dies?Unfortunately, he had no way of knowing how many fractures he had... he wouldn't have been able to do much anyway. The fact that there could be internal injuries was also worrying, but how could he know? Thinking, trusting his logical mind, he decided to put aside this kind of concern and concentrate on what he could manage to make sure his companion would make it through the night.

After cutting strips of cloth from the monk's tunic, he wet them and began to thoroughly clean the infected wounds. The one on the ribs was particularly worrying, clearly purulent, red and swollen all around. The bones underneath must have been in pieces. Having finished and conscious that he could do no more for the moment, Percival placed a wet tissue on the former monk's burning forehead and poured a trickle of water into his mouth, hoping that at least part of it would be swallowed by his patient. He then covered him with his cloak, deciding that he would look for medicinal plants at the first light of dawn, and, if possible, something to eat for himself.

The next morning, exhausted by a night of shivering and tortured by his stomach, the boy had got up to check Lancelot, relieved to see his chest rise and fall in rhythm with his breathing. He was still burning with fever, there was not a minute to lose. After pulling a dagger from the saddle and retrieving his little bow, Lancelot's being far too big and difficult to stretch, he set off to explore the surrounding forest.

******************

Lancelot has already been wandering in the forest for an hour in search of the young boy and still no sign of life. He is getting tired, he has already been twice caught with his feet in the roots strewn on the ground. However, he cannot give up, he would rather die than leave the child alone. By leaving everything he has ever known behind him, the boy has become the sole purpose of his existence, his only reason to stay alive. Moreover, he had obviously taken care of himself. He could have left him and gone or even finished him off and avenged his family, _but he had taken care of him..._ This said a lot about the value and kindness of the little Fay. He was going to find him, whatever it cost him, Percival was worth sacrificing himself for him.

After another twenty minutes of walking, the young man thought he could discern the sound of horses, then, weak and still distant, voices. Moving forward silently and staying as much as possible under cover, he heads towards the source of the noise. He smells them before he sees them, men's blood, paladins... His instinct shouts to him to turn back - _but if they have Percival?_ he must be sure of it. The voices don't seem to move. He advances folded in two until he discerns the glow of a fire. They have set up camp. He crouches down behind a tree hiding him from his former brothers, and observes a dozen paladins occupied with their duties. Suddenly, a movement catches his attention.

*****************

On his return, Perceval had managed to collect some plants known to the Fay for their healing and purifying virtues, a few handfuls of berries and a rabbit that he had skilfully shot in the eye with an arrow. After placing his spoils near Goliath's saddle, he went to collect dry wood, fortunately available in abundance around him. He had then been able to start a small fire with the blade of the dagger and a stone, and to boil water in a metal container found in Lancelot's few belongings. Adding the herbs, he had then gathered the rest of the cloth strips together, boiling them with the rest before allowing them to cool down sufficiently to be usable. Lancelot still hadn't opened his eyes. He didn't flinch when the boy cleaned his wounds again with the decoction, not a twitch when he covered the wounds with the strips of cloth impregnated with the remedy or even when he tied a few strips to hold them in place. 

While skinning the rabbit, Perceval reflected on his situation, alone in the woods with Lancelot dying of fever and unable to move. It was not the fact of having to survive in these circumstances that worried him, he was capable of it . No, _he was afraid of losing Lancelot_ and this thought disturbed him. He felt guilty, he felt like he was betraying his own kind by taking care of this man. But he had realised the day before, when Lancelot had told him to leave in a voice full of pain, that he didn't want him to die. How he had come to this, he could not have said... Perhaps because of the latter's sacrifice, or because he had understood, despite the information passed over in silence, that this Fay had certainly been a victim of the same scum that had massacred his people, that he had only been trying to survive at a time when he was just a frightened, lonely child; but the fact was there, he cared about Lancelot. Sighing in frustration, the young boy had finished preparing his meal.

The next day had been similar to the day before, hunting, gathering, cleaning of wounds. He had continued to make Lancelot drink with patience, failing to get him to eat. At the end of the day, he had gone to fetch a few more herbs and, following a rabbit, had gone farther than he would have liked. Night had finally fallen as he was about to turn back, his rabbit hanging from his belt. That's when he heard them - a group of men on horseback.

****************

Lancelot remains for a moment frozen in the face of the apparition. The flap of a tent had risen, attracting his gaze to the end of the small camp of paladins and, to his great amazement, the man who had come out of it was none other than Father Carden. Coming to his senses, Lancelot discreetly moved away, taking over the direction of his own camp. Percival is not there, everything is far too quiet among the paladins, they are certainly just passing through. Maybe they are looking for him, but they certainly don't expect him to be around here anymore. While hoping that the kid has returned to the camp, he starts the return trip. After a while, a scream makes him freeze and his heart misses a beat. _Percival!_

He runs in the direction from which the cry came, despite his weakness and the pain caused by every step, every impact of his feet on the ground. He picks up the smell of the boy, mixed with the smell of fear and of another person he doesn't know. Prudently, he steps forward and squats behind a bush, distinguishing against the darkness the tall silhouette of a hooded man. He silently nocks an arrow to his bow and shoots it with deadly precision. The man falls down and he sees Percival looking in all directions, searching for his saviour. He straightens up and walks towards young Fay, astonished by the violence of the relief he feels at seeing him safe and sound. Percival's reaction is even more unexpected. He freezes when he sees Lancelot approaching before recognising him and crossing the few metres separating them to embrace the monk with all the strength of his little arms. Lancelot doesn't know if it's because of the relief or if he's happy to see him standing; and to tell the truth, it doesn't matter, his wounds don't matter, the paladins don't matter, all that matters is the warmth that spreads in his chest in the face of this demonstration of affection. How long, how many years has it been since anyone has hugged him? _Who is the last person who was really happy to see him?_

"Lancelot! You're awake! You don't know how happy I am to see you, _I was worried,_ you had a _fever_ , I healed your wounds but it was so infected that I thought you were going to die! And when I came back you weren't there anymore, I thought... I thought they had caught you! I was out looking for you - I was afraid they had hurt you." Young Fay doesn't let go of him while he talks, he goes from joy to anger and then to sadness and the former monk doesn't know how to react to that. He doesn't deserve this boy's kindness. He can't understand why he shows him affection. All he knows is that he made the right choice, _he knows it in his heart._ He has always been convinced to do the right thing, to do goodness by "purifying" those damned souls, he now knows that the Green Knight was right; he can feel the difference between those earlier acts and the goodness that this child is showing towards him; _God is found in every act of benevolence,_ he was simply not looking in the right place.

On the way back, the two Fay speed up the pace, worried about the presence of the red paladins, they know they have to leave as soon as possible. On arriving at the camp, Perceval pulls the rabbit from the fire and Lancelot tramples on the embers to put it out. They eat while they quickly gather their meagre belongings, but before the monk can get into the saddle, Percival interrupts him.

"Let me freshen your bandages before we go." Lancelot wants to refuse, but the little one leaves him no choice, camped on his feet, arms folded, a determined look on his childish face.

"I'm fine, we don't have time for this."

"You used to say that too before you fell off your horse! Why can't you just let me help you?" Young Fay is angry again.

"You don't have to do this, Percival. I don't need any help." _I don't deserve it._

"You're more stubborn than your horse! You say you don't need help, but you didn't even see your wounds, I did, and it was disgusting! What are those marks on your back anyway?" The fact that Percival saw that part of himself makes him feel ashamed. He has always taken care to hide the traces of Father Carden's punishments, aware that they represent the depth of his sins, of his infamy. 

"Nothing at all. Something I deserved." _Not for the reasons I thought, but I deserve them all the same. -_ the young man thinks.

The child has tears in his eyes now... He almost screams when he answers. _Why does he get like that?_

"It's the old bearded monk, isn't it? He had no right to do this to you, it's not fair, everything you've done is his fault! He manipulated you, he hurt you and he even managed to make you believe that it was your fault... You're so stupid sometimes!" The young man is stunned. The child is far too perceptive for his own good... _How did he figure that out?_ Lancelot feels like a child being reprimanded. He lowers his head when he sees the tears running down the cheeks of the young knight in front of him. These tears of compassion hurt him more than any blow Father Carden could have inflicted on him. He cannot bear to see this brave young boy crying, _not for himself._

Then he lets himself slide gently against the tree trunk against which he has awakened and waits obediently for Percival to decide what he wants to do with him. Lancelot feels stupid. The boy has understood in a few days what he has taken years to realize ... Percival crouches down in front of him, he feels his little hands working, soft. He is gentle, careful not to cause him any pain and suddenly it is too much; memories resurface, soft hands that heal him as he cries, his knee scratched, azure blue eyes overflowing with unconditional love immersed in his own. Carden took everything from him, forced him to take from others what he had always lacked without him being aware of it. He He has always been nothing but violence, manipulation and brutality; he has always been nothing but hatred. A feeling of emptiness engulfs him, he thinks about what his life would have been like if he hadn't met his _father._ His cheeks are wet, but he does nothing to stop the tears from flowing, too overwhelmed by the sorrow he feels inside. He doesn't realise that Percival isn't moving, he doesn't feel the boy's gaze on him, but he feels the rough touch of his cape as he passes it around his shoulders before speaking in a tiny voice.

"I'm sorry Lancelot. I don't think you're stupid, I was angry at those dirty paladins and at your _father_. It's just that I was so scared that you were going to die... _I don't want to lose you too._ " It's true, the poor boy has already lost so many loved ones... Lancelot reaches out his hand to the child who takes it, and draws him to himself, comforting him as he imagines an older brother could do by hugging him.

"You won't lose me. I will not abandon you." Lost in the moment, he doesn't hear the footsteps approaching before the intruder appears. A soft, deep voice breaks the silence.

"So you were there"


End file.
